Think Of Me

Think of me often

On days when the sun

Sets lower in the sky

On nights when the moon

Is not there

In times of sorrow

And in times of delight

Think of me when I am

Not near

I Know Not

I know not the countless hours I have waited to hear you speak my name,

to hear your voice dance through my eardrums, once again,

pirouetting its way to my heart.

I know not the number of days I have counted on my nimble fingers,

anxiously waiting and wondering when I might be graced with your encouraging presence,

with your superior divinity.

I know less of many subjects, but of you,

I know well enough.

I know the curve of your jaw,

the touch of lips,

the glint in your eyes,

and the love in your heart,

but I know not where you are.

 

This Is What Happens When Depressed People Write

What happens

when we allow ourselves

to feel? Do we suddenly

recognize

the pain,

the sadness,

the agony

buried deep inside

our bustling minds? Or, is

the recognition

gradual?

Do we slowly

develop into

anxious beings

wanting to rid

ourselves of either

our trouble

or life, itself?

 

Cigarette Houses

Cigarette houses in concrete jungles wait patiently for 9:15,

when the caffeine surges through the dark veins of civilians

desperately searching for a pick-me-up.

Baristas brew dark roast coffee,

its texture as clear as mud,

its flavor bold and vivacious,

its taste as homey and hearty as Peet’s

served in an oversized cup in the afternoon on an Autumn day.

Citizens trudge through Ashtray Road,

their faces lined with sleepless hours,

their capillaries purple and black from withdrawal,

their hands violently shaking.

The need overcomes the inhabiters,

their stomachs twisting, acidic,

filled with rancid ingredients shoved down their digestive  tracts.

Smoke fills their lungs with a reason to stop,

a reason to breathe free air

and sing without a rasp and a constant guttural tone.

They realize their flaws.

They notice their deadly imperfections,

their own death traps,

and yet they stop not for themselves

or their cigarette houses.

Still, they trudge on down the valley of ashes,

searching for their jolt,

the one simple pleasure that makes them feel alive,

they makes them feel real.

They prick their veins with caffeine needles

and feel the rush,

feel the power,

feel the warning signs.

 

The Unthinkable

I never thought that I would smile,

that I would hear you breathe rhythmically,

in sync with my own heartbeat,

that my hand would reach out for yours

even if you were not near.

I never thought that I could love,

that I could open up my heart and bleed

without feeling ashamed,

that my world would be forever altered by your touch.